London is "a pagan city." Such was the uncompromising verdict lately pronounced upon it by the Venerable Archdeacon Sinclair, of great St. Paul's. "A pagan city"—he said, or was reported to say—"with churches glimmering here and there like fairy lamps twinkling in the spaces of darkness upon a lawn. Like fairy lamps, they serve to show the darkness rather than to illuminate it." It was in a manner striking and curious that the Archdeacon should have chosen such a simile as "fairy lamps" for the Churches. It was an unconsciously happy hit—no doubt absolutely unintentional. But it described the Churches of to-day with marvellous exactitude. They are "fairy lamps"—no more!—only fit for show—of no use in a storm—and quenched easily with a strong puff of wind. Fairy lamps!—not strong or steady beacons—not lighthouses in the rough sea of life, planted bravely on impregnable rocks of faith to which the drowning sailor may cling for rescue and haply find life again. Fairy lamps! Multiply them by scores, good Archdeacon!—quadruple them in every corner of this "pagan" city of ours, over which the heart of every earnest thinker must yearn with a passion of love and pity, and they shall be no use whatever to light the blackness of one soul's midnight of despair! "Pagan London!" The
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